


Reading You

by AnotherLoser



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-18 22:11:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8177960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherLoser/pseuds/AnotherLoser
Summary: Michael hopes he gets better, but he’s glad for what improvement there is already.  He hopes he keeps the good stuff going.





	

Lincoln has been doing a pretty good job of staying on the wagon this time around.  He goes to work five days a week, sets a couple of alarms so he doesn’t show up late, eats three meals a day. He goes out less, which is a bittersweet sort of thing in Michael’s opinion.  Less getting drunk, less fighting, fewer bad decisions, but that reduces his life outside of work to the sort of boring every day life that Lincoln was never a huge fan of.  He goes shopping, he cooks, he occasionally cleans, he might grab a beer after work but he still doesn’t stay out late- it’s incredibly average.  
In his defense, he was rather obviously depressed.

Michael hopes he gets better, but he’s glad for what improvement there is already.  He hopes he keeps the good stuff going.

He’s there every time Lincoln comes home in the evening, every time he leaves in the morning.  He watches him cook more often than not because he liked observing, liked smelling the food, and there was little else for him to do anyway.  And, above all else, he doesn’t really interact with Lincoln these days.  He wants the company, wants to be a part of the mundane things.  So he lurks, watches, listens, sometimes even tidies when Lincoln goes to bed- not much, nothing too noticeable, just keeping the trash from stinking up the place and the like.

He saw the change in motivation, in energy level, in focus. He watches Lincoln struggle. It hurts to bare witness helplessly.

But then, what can Michael do? He's been dead for a year.

[…]

He's determined that he wasn't awake instantly afterwards. Very few times has Michael ever had alcohol, and only once has he been drunk, but he remembers waking up the next morning. It was a similar feeling to opening his eyes after his death. It passed quicker though.  
By then the apartment he and his brother shared was occupied again. One of the first things he saw was Lincoln staring at Michael's things with a beer in his hand. Upon closer inspection, Michael realized that he had hardly even sipped it. Lincoln slept on the couch that night and cried.  
Michael did too.

It took months to be able to interact, and even then, only so much. Sometimes if he speaks Lincoln seems to hear something. Sometimes he shivers when they touch. Objects are easier.

He stopped trying all together for a while. Continuing might make his brother go mad, or at least think he was.

Michael found a compromise with himself.  
When Lincoln sleeps he can talk to him. He's not positive that it's any better for Lincoln's mental state to be dreaming of his brother talking to him a year after his death. Michael let's himself be selfish in this one way.

[…]

He holds Lincoln's hand when he knows that he's asleep. For the fifth time in a year, Lincoln tightens his fingers around Michael's, unknowingly acknowledging him.  
Michael closes his eyes and basks in the moment, sat on the floor with his knees drawn up to his chest and his side leaned against the bed frame.  
“Michael...?” Lincoln whispers.  
His eyes suddenly, but he is slow turning his head to look at his brother. Lincoln looks back at him. “Can you hear me..?” He breaths, eyes beginning to sting with unshed tears.  
Lincoln's brow furrows. “I can't...I'm seeing things..” Michael shakes his head frantically, sitting up on his knees and clutching his brother's hand in both of his own.  
“No, no Lincoln I'm here, I've always been here I- I'm still here.”  
Movement stiff, Lincoln sits up and reaches for Michael's face. He cradles his jaw and lets out a shaking breath. “Michael...”  
“Please hear me, please, Linc I-”  
“I can't hear you, Mikey, I see your mouth moving but I- it's too quiet to make out.” For some reason he's whispering. Michael feels like crying again. He can work with this. They can work with this. It's something and it's more than they've had in a year.

Michael squeezes his eyes shut and nods.  
Lincoln mumbles something about it being a dream, and huffing a laugh, Michael pulls himself away to turn on the lights and fix Lincoln with a look that says 'Oh really?'. It's hard to believe, sure, but it was real. Lincoln's eyes shine in the light, bring attention to the tears trying to fall. He smiles weakly, but so bright.  
Michael practically tackles him.

[…]

They couldn't sleep that night. Lincoln was too afraid to wake up and find Michael gone again, and Michael...He doesn't sleep, exactly.

There was something similar, but he knows it's not the same. He can shut himself down in the way the body does when it rests, but instead of nothing or dreams until waking, there were memories. He couldn't lay down for rest without knowing for a fact that a random moment from his past would be relived. Sometimes mere days before his death, sometimes years. There was no pattern to it, really.

Lying awake with Lincoln was much better, even if he couldn't speak.

Instead he listened, and he couldn't have been more happy to do just that. Lincoln tells him over and over how much he missed him, how he much loved him, how sorry he was that it happened. He doesn't know what really happened. Michael only has a vague idea of his death. He knows where he was, knows how he felt before and while it happened, but how he died was a bit of a mystery. He tries not to think on it when Lincoln apologizes for not being there. He doesn't need to be questioning it right then.

It's amazing how time flies. Eventually he has to stop him with a shake of his head, change the subject. They begin reminiscing instead. Hours fly recounting their childhoods, time spent together over the years and Michael can't chime in but he laughs and nods and whacks Lincoln's chest when he decides to be a smart ass. The entire time they hardly move at all; Lincoln's shoulders propped up with pillows between his back and the wall, and Michael under his arm with his head on his head on his shoulder.

In the morning Lincoln is tired, but he doesn't act it despite how his yawning betrays him. He makes coffee and smiles for what might be the first time Michael has seen since his death.

He still has work. He suggests calling in sick but Michael fixes him with a look and with a roll of his eyes, Lincoln gives. He hugs him tight when making his leave.

He's late returning home. Not massively, but enough that Michael knows he isn't coming straight home.  
Lincoln walks back through the door with a grocery bag in hand with notepads, pencils, pens, a small dry-erase board, and three markers for it. He also suggests sign language, but neither of them are really sure where you're supposed to learn in the first place. Michael assumes a class but doesn't suggest it as a viable option since classes cost money and it's not like they have no way to communicate without it.

[…]

Michael can clean the apartment fully now. Lincoln may try, but just isn't good at remembering it, and even if he does suddenly seeing his brother's ghost isn't going to cure his mental state. Energy was better used for work and cooking, Michael thinks. So he doesn't comment on any of how Lincoln lives, because he understands. Lincoln tells him one night that he used to not get it when weeks would go by where Michael the neat-freak would hardly take care of anything, including himself it seemed. He doesn't have to say that he gets it now.

So, Michael is cleaning now. He'll help just like he used to, like he did before things got so bad, and on good days in the midst of it.  
The kitchen goes quick. Lincoln was good about doing the dishes at least. The bedroom wasn't bad, though he will have to send Lincoln to do the laundry that Michael has decided wasn't clean enough keep hanging up anymore; something he'd probably go ahead and do himself while he's on a roll if that wouldn't mean leaving the apartment.  
Neither of them are willing to risk wether Michael can be seen by others or not. Not yet, anyway.

He finds a suit in the back of the closet. Lincoln wore it to Michael's funeral. He watched him get ready, and when he left as stoic as he had been from the start of the day, Michael curled up on Lincoln's bed and cried. It had been the third day since he woke. Michael doesn't know who else would go besides Veronica, so the concept of a funeral is kind of ridiculous now.  
Lincoln came home shitfaced that night.

Shaking his head, Michael carries on.

[…]

“Have you tried leaving?”  
Michael pauses a moment and shakes his head. He's sat sideways on the couch with his knees drawn up to prop the white board on, his back against Lincoln's chest lounged in the corner of the couch. Uncapping his marker, he starts writing. “Haven't thought about it. Why?”  
He feels Lincoln shrugging behind him. “Wondering if you even can. What if stepping outside is all that's stopping you from..Y'know. Moving on?”  
Michael wipes the board clean with his finger and begins again. “No idea.”

[…]

Michael stands in front of the open door.  Lincoln is at work.  He has a few hours before he returns.  The mystery on the other side of the doorframe is terrifying.  Maybe he should wait for Lincoln to be home.  He could hold his hand, be an anchor to his world, maybe?  On his own....  Michael is truly clueless.

[...]

He tried to sleep.  
Lincoln came home to an empty apartment.  
Michael can hear him worrying, calling out, growing more and more afraid that he was left alone for good.  
He’s sat on the bedroom floor with his arms wrapped around his knees and his head down.  He doesn’t know why he’s trying to hide, but he is.  Apparently he wont be seen if he doesn’t welcome it.

He does his best to tune out everything going on around him, wanting to assure Lincoln, wanting to be comforted himself, but still wanting to be alone on some level.  Eventually Lincoln comes into the room though.  Michael continues to stare at the floor for a few minutes.  When he forces himself to look up at his brother, he sees such defeat in him.  
He squeezes his eyes shut and when he opens them Lincoln is staring back.  
They hold each other that night.

[...]

The next few days are rough.  Emotions for a ghost seem to be tricky.  It’s far too easy for Michael to fall into a negative cycle.  
It didn’t used to be like this.  
Worrying over Lincoln for the past year seems to have kept this problem at bay, for the most part.  Or maybe he just didn’t notice it without interaction.  
Eventually he goes from irritable and distant to completely invisible.  Wether it’s because he doesn’t want to bother Lincoln, or because he doesn’t want Lincoln to bother him, he isn’t sure.

[...]

When he reappears it’s after Lincoln talks to him for almost an hour with no response to go off of.  He sits on the floor with his back against the couch and just talks.  Talks about their past, talks about the future he wanted for Michael, and for a moment he thinks that Lincoln’s voice is starting to waver.  
Michael shows himself sat criss-cross on the couch.  More specifically, he reveals himself and leans down to wrap his arms around his brother.

[...]

Months pass soon enough.  They get used to each other, to the situation.  It doesn’t take much to fall into place together.  
Michael wishes he could go somewhere, do something other than sit around tidying and reading.  
He’s afraid to risk it.  
Lincoln doesn’t know.

They've gotten good at communicating silently, partially through looks and partially through gestures.  The whiteboard is still used regularly, but only for lengthier replies.  
Usually when there’s extra spending money, Lincoln will ask Michael for a list of books for him and he’ll come home with one or two.  Lincoln’s time at work or with friends means Michael being home alone, after all, he should leave his little brother with things to do.

Things are good.

Sometimes Michael still has outbursts, upset or spooked by relived memories followed by the majority of the day by himself with his thoughts and he’ll hide for a while until he settles.  
But things are still good.

 

Good up until Lincoln, unable to sleep, starts asking him things that he really shouldn’t ask.  
“Why’d you do it...?”  First he catches Michael off guard, and get’s nothing in return.  It’s just a murmured question.  
Then he asks again, and his voice almost breaks.  Michael reaches for the whiteboard on the nightstand, and writes.  “Do what?”  
“You know what..”  
He shakes his head as he wipes the ink away.  
“Why’d you kill yourself, Mikey..”  He sounds so defeated when he asks, whispering now.  
Michael hesitates.  It feels like his heart is pounding in his chest and he hasn’t once felt it so strongly before.  Swallowing around the lump in his throat, he shakes his head again stiffly.  
But that’s just it, his death is a bit of a mystery.  He only remembers so much of it.  
“I didn’t...”  He breaths, knowing full well that Lincoln can’t hear him but ignoring that fact as his head starts to ache.  “I didn’t I didn’t I didn’t I didn’t-” He goes on and on doesn’t remember when he dropped the marker and put his head in his hands but that’s how he is when Lincoln reaches over and wraps his fingers around his wrists.

A long time passes.  He’s not sure exactly how much.  Eventually Michael uncurls and picks up the marker again.  He sniffs, and writes.  
“I didn’t”

“...What do you mean, Michael- they found you with a gun in your hand.”  He can hear it in Lincoln’s voice; fear of the unknown.  
He breaths deep, stilling himself before he retells what he knows.  They never talked about it.  Lincoln didn’t want to ask and Michael didn’t want to talk about it.  It’s a usual pattern for them, but backfiring now just as often as it had before.  
“I wanted to once or twice.”  He writes, starting in the corner and smaller than he usually does.  “I know how I felt when I did, and I don’t remember my death clearly but I didn’t feel like that.  I wasn’t lonely or angry or sad I was just terrified and I remember them putting it in my hand.”  
Lincoln stops breathing.  “Who...”  He whispers.  “Who did it, Michael who the fuck killed you.”  There’s no real bite to his words.  He’s afraid.


End file.
